


some dance to remember (some dance to forget)

by irishais



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: Constructed Reality, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:33:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29474769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishais/pseuds/irishais
Summary: Twenty years later, so much has changed, and so much has stayed the same.
Relationships: Rinoa Heartilly/Squall Leonhart, Seifer Almasy/Rinoa Heartilly, Squall Leonhart/Quistis Trepe
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	some dance to remember (some dance to forget)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SummonerLuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummonerLuna/gifts).



piano notes fall like bright stars, like brighter, sharper knives, discordant harmony that soaks into her bones.

she wears a dress of palest gold, spinning like a top, out and back and out again, squall’s hand strong in hers, his elaborate uniform little more than a blur of blue and black and gold with every release, every pull. they rise and fall with each other, the inescapable pull of the moon at the untamable riot of the sea. 

they are made for each other, this sorceress and knight, they are inevitable, they are eternal. 

_promise me,_ she whispers against his chest once she’s folded against it one more time, _promise me_. 

there is no hesitation. 

_i promise._

he releases her, and lets go of her hand-- she spins, she spins, she spins, joyous and free, the happiest she’s ever been. 

\--

He’s getting too old for this. 

The thought is unwelcome, an intrusion-- he isn’t very old at all, forty just behind him and forgotten almost as quickly as it had come. Another day in another year in another decade in another life. 

Squall prizes the slobber-coated tennis ball from between Angelo’s jaws-- _she’s_ the one who should be feeling old, shouldn’t even be _alive_ anymore and yet healthy as a dog in her prime every time he carts her off to the vet for her annual physical, baffling every vet they see-- and launches it back across the narrow strip of beach. 

Angelo tears after it, giving him a moment of reprieve to rotate his arm a bit, trying to ease the pull of tired muscles there. Forty is the prime of his life, or so Laguna told him in a phone call that had probably been too brief for his father and lasted far, far too long for Squall’s liking. He’s still young. He can still do everything he wants. 

_Get out of Balamb. See the world for a while, without a war on._

The joke gets less funny every time it’s told. Not that it was all that funny to begin with. 

Angelo returns, worn yellow ball clamped between her jaws. She puts up the expected tussle-- no taking, only throwing, and no amount of reason can get her to see the fallacy in her argument. Eventually, she yields. 

“One more,” he tells her, “and then we’re going in. Okay?” 

Her brown head cocks, one ear rises briefly, and the understanding is there. After more than twenty years, he would certainly hope they’ve come to some sort of agreement, anyway. 

Squall winds up. The ball launches, sun seeping all its color as it sails through the sky. 

“Nice throw.” 

He nods slightly, tracking it to its inevitable descent, Angelo up on her hind legs to snatch it out of the air; fingers come up to his shoulder joint, digging gently in practiced motions. He feels some of the ache flare hot for a second, and then give up its stranglehold on the nerves there. 

“Better?” 

“Yeah. Thanks.” 

Her arms come around his waist, chin coming to rest atop the clean white of his shirtsleeve; Squall’s hand comes to cover hers, squeezing lightly. 

“You’re early.” 

“Not really.” Quistis’ voice is light-- she’s so good at lying that it takes him a second to pick up on the accusation there. “I picked up dinner on my way.” 

His watch is still in the house, his phone there, too, deliberately left behind. Twenty-odd years have taught him that he doesn’t always need to be at Garden’s every beck and call, that it’s fine, welcome, even, to evade them. 

“Sorry. Lost track of time, I guess.” 

Her breath is warm against his throat; it no longer feels like a betrayal, to pull one of her hands to his mouth, to press his lips against her knuckles very briefly as he watches the dog get distracted (deliberately, no doubt, no fan of playtime ended too early) by a flock of seagulls that swoop low and scatter at her bark. 

“It happens. We can eat outside, if you want. It’s nice enough.” 

Her fingers interlace with his, pulling him around. Squall whistles one sharp note over his shoulder, and Angelo abandons birds to come galloping back to him. 

\--

her swirling return is met with laughter, familiar and deep, seifer’s arms coming around to catch her before she can roll straight down the grassy incline and right into the river that rushes below. rinoa laughs in kind; the kiss she steals is still tinged with amusement, joy-- this is the happiest she’s ever been, right here in the middle of the most perfect summer. 

_stay just a little longer,_ she wheedles, arching her back to let his hand graze bare skin beneath her skirt. it’s a dirty trick, waiting to ask until his defenses are down, but rinoa learns from the best, and he’s taught her to be _better_. 

_alright, alright,_ he concedes, and his mouth is on hers, and her leg hitches higher around his back, and she knows he would do anything she asks. 

there is a record scratch. she rolls down the hill. he catches her. they laugh. they kiss. 

_stay a little longer._

_alright, alright._

this is the happiest she’s ever been. 

\--

His back is bent, face obscured by a heavy shield and sparks flying as he welds together a section of piping that has started to come loose. After ten years, things start to fall into disrepair-- especially forgotten things, a once-prominent novelty of Esthar relegated to normalcy, put in a sterile basement and left to its own devices behind several locked doors.

The weld looks like it’ll hold when he finally pulls away the torch, pushing up the shield to wipe sweat off onto his sleeve. It’s good work, solid. It’ll do what it needs to. 

He takes his time cleaning up, packing away the equipment in the little closet they’ve allocated to maintenance-- Seifer wouldn’t say this is what he planned on doing with his life, not by a long shot, but he likes the job, the hours, the peace and goddamned quiet he gets now that the world’s left him alone. Besides, it’s nice to only report to Laguna Loire, and the paychecks help keep him in one place for a while. 

Helps, too, that the job keeps him down here most of the time, so he can keep a promise he’d made so many years ago-- _stay a little longer_. 

Once everything’s away, he pulls down a cardboard lunchbox from where he’s stashed it, set up on a ledge and out of the way while he worked, and drags one of the lab stools to sit in front of the sealed chamber, feet propped up on one of the giant power converters that limns the base, capable of handling the worst of the surges that run through the whole thing. 

“Looks like it’s just you and me today, princess,” he comments, unfolding the flaps on the box, ripping the paper off disposable chopsticks, digging in. 

Some people would call this creepy, call him crazy for talking to a person who never responds, but those people can take a long walk off a short pier if they think Seifer Almasy gives one single shit about any of that. 

He may not be her _knight_ , but he owes her this much. 

In the chamber, Rinoa floats in suspended animation, among a nest of tubes and wires.

\--

she dances in a field of flowers, the world limitless and the sky stretching on forever, seifer on one side, squall on the other. 

_will you protect me?_

_i promise._

_will you kill me?_

_i promise._

_will you stay with me forever?_

they reach for her, they keep her safe.

this is the happiest she’s ever been. 

  
  



End file.
